


Inked on the Heart

by Natasha_Von_Lecter



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 13:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha_Von_Lecter/pseuds/Natasha_Von_Lecter
Summary: An RCIJ gift for SpottyTongueDog, based on her lovely prompt: “Is this your first time?” Belle is just about to close up for the evening when an unexpected visitor requests her services. This is an AU set during the first curse in Storybrook.





	Inked on the Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spottytonguedog](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Spottytonguedog).



The gentle clink of the front door opening alerts Belle to the presence of a customer. She has no appointments on the books, and had planned on closing up soon, but like her sign says, “Walk-ins are Always Welcome.” Especially when rent is due in less than a week and her much loved, but ancient Miata decided to give up the ghost exactly when she can least afford to fix it. She puts down her spray bottle of alcohol, and tosses the sodden paper towels into the trash. She keeps her station fastidiously clean as a point of pride. 

She doesn’t know what exactly she expected, but the man standing on the other side of the reception counter is decidedly out of place in her shop. He’s well dressed, for one thing. She takes in his elegant pinstripe and his well shined brogues. They practically scream “money.” The suit and shoes say “banker or lawyer,” and he does look straight laced, but the soft brown hair brushing his collar hints at a less traditional career. Whatever he does for a living, he’s here now, and she is confident she can give him what he needs. She hopes he’s a good tipper. Putting on her most winning smile she holds out her hand. 

“Hello, I’m Belle. What were you looking to get?” 

He shakes her hand, but remains tight-lipped. Instead of speaking, he digs a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, and slides it across the counter. Inwardly, she sighs as she sees the writing on the paper. Personally, she thinks a name is always a mistake, but she’s not about to throw money out the door just because his obvious taste in clothes does not extend to his choice in art. Instead, she pulls a binder from under the counter and flips it open to a few tasteful photos of her work.

“Do you have a specific font in mind? Size?”

He glides his finger over a closeup of a quote from The Velveteen Rabbit. 

“Such a sad book, but beautiful. One of my favorites. You like the look of that text?”

He nods, still not trusting his voice. She’s seen pre-tattoo jitters many times before, but it doesn’t look like this. The man before her just looks...sad. She smiles at him and pulls out some scratch paper. She copies down his text in a soft cursive style, as in the sample. 

“What about placement?”

“Where do they usually go?” His voice is lovely, but not at all what she was expecting. He’s probably been in the states a long time, because the harsher edges seem to have faded, but she can still make out the contours of a Scottish accent. 

“Is this your first time?” 

He blinks, looking slightly affronted, so she quickly adds, “Your first time getting inked?” She sees the confusion leave his gaze, and she’s not quite sure what to make of him. Something feels...off, but she can’t quite nail it down. 

“Well, the shoulder is popular. It’s a nice, easy place to work, big enough to accommodate nice clean lines, and easy to cover up if you can’t have visible tattoos at your job. With something like this, you could do the chest. Ink it over your heart. Though it will hurt more there. There’s less flesh over the bone, so you’ll feel it more deeply.” 

“Good. Over the heart then.” 

She writes the text out again, a bit smaller this time, but still easy to read. She holds the paper out to him. His fingertips brush hers awkwardly as he grasps the paper. 

“About this big?”

“Yes. Good.” 

“Any other elements you want to add? Hearts, flourishes?”

“No. Just the name.” 

She inwardly sighs - she was hoping he’d want something a bit more complex. Something so simple, she’d feel guilty charging more than a hundred, and even that seems high for such a small piece. It’s not enough to make her rent for the month, and she mentally runs down her list of side gigs she can try to drum up in the next few days.

“Ok. The cost would be...” 

“Doesn’t matter.”

He pulls out his wallet and peels several hundred from a sizable stack. He drops them clumsily on the counter.

“Oh, that’s very generous of you, but it’s too much for such a little...”

“It’s fine. Keep it. Let’s get this done.” 

She doesn’t need to be told twice. Belle sweeps the cash off the counter and into her pocket. Perhaps she’ll make her rent after all. 

“Thank you. If you’re ready you can come on back. There’s a bathroom to the left. You can hang your shirt up in there so it doesn’t get wrinkled. Then meet me at the chair under the painting of the rose.”

The man makes his way to the restroom. Belle runs her sketch through the scanner, then prints it out on transfer paper. She trims it neatly and takes it to her station. She pulls out alcohol pads, stick deodorant, and a disposable razor. She hears him approach tentatively and settle into her chair. She turns around, her eyes taking in his thin but wiry physique. He’s slim, but there’s strength in his chest and arms. 

“First, I’m going to cleanse the area we’ll be tattooing, then I’ll need to shave it. You don’t have a lot of hair, but the tiniest ones get in the way. Then, I’ll use the stick deodorant to apply this transfer paper so you can get an idea of placement. If you don’t like where I’ve placed it, we can start again, and we’ll do it as many times as it takes. I want you to be happy, ok? Are you ready?” 

He nods again, and she steps to the sink, thoroughly cleaning and drying her hands with a paper towel before donning a pair of black nitrile gloves. She rips open the alcohol pad and runs it briskly across his chest. She reaches for the razor, but before she can drag it across his chest, she meets his eyes. They’re red. Very red. She suddenly realizes he’s been crying. Her stomach drops and a sinking feeling fills her chest. She needs his money, desperately, but she adds up all the uneasy feelings she’s had tonight and comes to the conclusion he’s not in the right state to make such a permanent decision. A little voice in the back of her head whispers that it’s not her job to protect people from themselves. She tries to listen to it - she does need the money after all. She buys herself sometime by gingerly sliding the razor over his chest and cleaning it again with the alcohol. He closes his eyes and sighs, his breath wafting gently across her face. 

It’s stale. More than that, it has the distinct odor of whisky. He’s been drinking. And now she sighs, in earnest, because she knows there’s no way she can keep his money. She’s not about to compromise her ethics, even if it is to avoid eviction, and she’s not tattooing someone under the influence. Never mind that his blood will be thinned, and he’s more likely to pass out. The real danger is his waking up with regrets and she just can’t do that to a person. She leans back against the sink and strips her gloves off. His eyes flutter open and he looks at her, questioning. 

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Well spotted. And?” 

“You’ve been crying, too. I’m not tattooing you.” 

“I’m not drunk. I’ve only had...well, I’m not drunk.” 

“Doesn’t matter. One would be too many. It thins the blood. It makes it harder for me to work clean, and it dilutes the ink. Look, I don’t know who your Bae is, but you’re not going to win her back with some grand gesture if your tattoo looks like shit.” 

She pulls his cash out of her pocket, and presses it back in his hand. He stares at her, dumbfounded. 

“I needed that money too, you know! I don’t know how I’m going to make my rent this month. Did you drive here?” 

“Yes.” 

She holds out her open palm. “Keys.”

“I told you I’m not drunk.” 

“Look, If I can smell it on you, the sheriff can smell it on you. They’re bored out of their minds on Friday nights in a town this small. I bet they’d love to toss you in a holding cell overnight. You want to chance it?” 

Reluctantly he fishes his keys out of his pocket and hands them over.

“Go put your shirt back on.” 

He shuffles back to the restroom and she can’t help but feel sorry for him. He looks defeated. Despite his good shoes, and his expensive suit she can tell that life hasn’t been kind to him. A few moments later he emerges set to rights but looking more distraught than ever. 

“Where are you parked?” 

“Right out front.”

“Ok, fine. Wait by the front door while I lock up and set the alarm.” 

He does as bidden, and she quickly closes up. She locks the shop behind her, and heads towards the only car parked on the street. 

“I’m going to drive you home. Then you’re going to call me a cab and give them your credit card. Agreed?” 

“I’m really...” 

“Oh, get in. I’m not asking.” 

He doesn’t speak much on the drive, other than to direct her where to turn. He’s out in the nice part of town, unsurprisingly, but she is surprised to see his spacious home is painted a rather...expressive shade of pink. 

She pulls into the driveway, and shuts off the Caddy. Without being prompted he picks up his cell phone and presses the contact marked “taxi.” After a brief conversation with the operator, he gives her his credit card number from memory, then hangs up. 

“They said they’ll be half an hour.” 

“Fine. Thank you.” 

Belle exits the car and walks to the porch, settling on one of his chairs. 

“At least wait inside. You’ll catch a chill out here.” 

“I’m not in the habit of going into strange men’s houses.” 

“Just giving them back their money and driving them home?” 

She sighs and rolls her eyes. 

“Anyways, I already called the cab company and gave them my credit card. That would have been very stupid if I planned to do you harm.” 

“About as stupid as tattooing the pet name of the ex that dumped you over your heart. Besides, how do I know you actually called them?”

He pulls up the call log on his phone and offers it to her. She shrugs in grudging acceptance.

“Still, I’m fine out here.”

He shrugs and lets himself into his house, only to emerge a few moments with a generous tumbler of whisky. He sinks into the chair to her right, and sips his drink. 

“So you were drinking.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Are you going to take the car back out as soon as I’m gone? The next tattoo parlour is a long drive from here, you know.” 

“No, miss..?”

“French.” 

“No, Miss French. I plan to see you safely into a cab, then go back inside where I have a nice fireplace and enough whisky to get properly drunk.” 

“Your Bae must be a hell of a woman. You’re not going to drunk dial her, are you? Trust me, It’s never a good idea.”

He stares down at his drink, and is silent for a long time. When he does speak he doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Bae was the love of my life, Miss French, but not my lover. Bae was what I called my son, back before you young people adopted that term. It was short for Baelfire.” 

The pieces fall into place and she silently curses herself. 

“Has...it been a long time?” 

“It feels like centuries, sometimes. And like it was only yesterday. Today would have been his birthday.” 

“Oh god. Look, I’m sorry. I’m just so used to seeing squabbling idiots inking themselves with a long line of short flings. I’m sorry, it never occurred to me that it was meant to be a memorial tattoo.” 

He still avoids her gaze, looking for a way to change the subject. 

“How did you get into tattooing?” 

“Well, my degree is in fine art. I’d hoped to go into restoring, but I had to leave New York when my dad got sicK. I help out at his flower shop, but I need to hustle to make ends meet and there’s not exactly a huge demand for art restoration in Storybrook. So I apprenticed at the shop until I was confident enough to tattoo real skin instead of chicken breasts. It’s not exactly what I hoped to do with my life, but sometimes I get to make art and it pays the bills. Well, sometimes.” 

“Is that really how you practice?”

She shrugs. “Skin is skin. You usually start out on oranges, then move to chicken breasts. Oranges are cheaper.” 

He sets his glass down in the small table between them. His eyebrows lift in surprise as she picks up the glass and takes a drink. 

“I figured you’d have the good stuff, with your rather large estate, and overpaying for tattoos. And you’ve been drinking it, so I know it’s not drugged.” 

“You assume I’m not willing to indulge in a little self harm, Miss French.” 

“Is that what you were doing? Did you think the pain might drive out the demons? It doesn’t, you know. Pain doesn’t kill demons. Only kindness can do that.” 

He takes the glass from her hand, swigs it, and returns it to her. 

“I...miss him. So much. It’s...sometimes I’m terrified he’ll be forgotten. I feel like I’m the only person left on earth who remembers him. I thought, maybe if I carried his name with me, always, there might be a special magic in that.” 

She nods in understanding. It’s a deeper answer than she’d given him credit for, and shame burns her cheeks. She’d taken him for some sad old drunk chasing a lost love, but he’s a father in mourning for his child. Spontaneously, she reaches over and squeezes his hand. She can tell he wants to pull away, but he resists the urge. She wonders when was the last time he was touched, with kindness. 

“Also, I’d had too much to drink.” 

She nearly spits out her whisky, but he guides her up from her seat as the cab pulls into his drive. He takes her by the elbow and leads her to the waiting taxi. He even opens the door for her. He’s surprisingly gentlemanly, when he’s not trying to convince her to take a needle to his skin. He leans into the cabbie and instructs him, “See that she gets home safely.” 

Suddenly she is overwhelmed by the thought of never seeing him again. She’s gone from being annoyed to brimming with sympathy. All she knows about him is that he is lonely and in pain. She doesn’t even know his name. She rolls down her window and shouts “Thank you, Mr.?” 

And as she drives away, she hears him whisper “Gold.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Six days later, when her rent is due, and she’s still $120 short, she logs onto her tenant portal preparing to pay what she has in her bank account and hope for the best. Her balance is zeroed out. She stairs at it, blankly, thinking there must be some mistake. It’s only when her eyes drift to the header of the page does it dawn on her - Her building is managed by Gold Standard Reality. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A month later, Mr. Gold is quite surprised to find one Miss Belle French occupying his porch on a lazy Saturday afternoon. He opens the door and gestures her inside but she shakes her head. 

“I appreciate what you did for me.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about Miss French.” 

She rolls her eyes, but if he doesn’t want to admit his kindness, she won’t press him. “Will you come with me? There’s something I want to show you.” 

He follows her to her car, and allows her to drive them away. Their trip does not take long - in a matter of minutes they are pulling into a parking space across from the library. She ushers him inside, to the children’s section. At the back, there is a small brass plaque, mounted to a cheerful yellow door. He squints at it, and reads - “The Baelfire Gold Children’s Reading Room.” 

It is a long moment before he turns to her. When he does, his eyes are bright with unshed tears. And more than that, he is looking at her with awe. Like she’s the most precious jewel he’s ever seen. 

“Now you won’t be the only one who remembers his name.” 

She reaches for him, and he lets her enfold him in her arms. He is tentative at first, but then something inside him breaks and he holds to her fiercely. Like a man who fears he might drown. She hugs him back, and runs her hand soothingly up and down his back until he recovers. When he extracts himself from her embrace his eyes are dry, but she can tell he is deeply moved. She can’t think of anything more to say, so she smiles and takes her leave. She’s almost to the door, before the sound of his voice halts her steps. 

“Miss French...would you like to....could I take you to dinner?”

When she turns back to look in his eyes, she sees something there that wasn’t there before. She thinks it might be hope. And she asks him, “Do you like hamburgers?” 

The End


End file.
